“Same thing; natives of Norfolk.”
“You had better be honest with me, Mr. Gates,” said Mrs. Munger. “Yes, I'll take a couple of boxes.”
“All right! Want 'em nice, and the biggest ones at the bottom of the box?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That's what I thought. Some customers wants the big ones on top; but I tell 'em it's all foolishness; just vanity.” Gates laughed a dry, hacking little laugh at his drollery, and kept his eyes on Annie. She smiled at last, with permissive recognition, and Gates came forward. “Used to know your father pretty well; but I can't keep up with the young folks any more.” He was really not many years older than Annie; he rubbed his right hand on the inside of his long shirt, and gave it her to shake. “Well, you haven't been about much for the last nine or ten years, that's a fact.”
“Eleven,” said Annie, trying to be gay with the hand-shaking, and wondering if this were meeting the lower classes on common ground, and what Mr. Peck would think of it.
“That so?” queried Gates. “Well, I declare! No wonder you've grown!” He hacked out another laugh, and stood on the curb-stone looking at Annie a moment. Then he asked, “Anything else, Mrs. Munger?”
“No; that's all. Tell me, Mr. Gates, how do Mr. Peck and Mr. Gerrish get on?” asked Mrs. Munger in a lower tone.
“Well,” said Gates, “he's workin' round—the deacon's workin' round gradually, I guess. I guess if Mr. Peck was to put in a little more brimstone, the deacon'd be all right. He's a great hand for brimstone, you know, the deacon is.”
Mrs. Munger laughed again, and then she said, with a proselyting sigh, “It's a pity you couldn't all find your way into the Church.”